


black milk

by slashy (slash_y)



Series: milk and honey [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, M/M, why not both?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slash_y/pseuds/slashy
Summary: It’s not really about the house, Dean thinks as he drives the ten miles to the nearest proper town, though he’s certainly unhappy about that turn of events. It’s really more about them. And the fact that Dean has no idea what the hell they’re doing. Cain was dead--at Dean's own hands--then he was not-dead and dream-stalking Dean. Then he was alive and in Dean’s bed, and now they’re both gearing up to fix a house together. It’s weird, to say the least, and when Dean lets himself think too hard about it, it makes him want to turn tail and run.
Relationships: Cain/Dean Winchester
Series: milk and honey [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689691
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	black milk

**Author's Note:**

> this is a direct sequel to "honeypot" that i started 5 years ago. for whatever reason, now felt like the right time to finish it. hoping some folks are still out there who'd like to read it!

The morning Sam learns that the Father of Murder is alive and well, Cain makes breakfast while the younger Winchester wraps his head around the fact that his brother and the First Son are in some sort of relationship.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam asks. 

Dean’s at a bit of a loss for words. “I’m really good at avoiding uncomfortable shit,” he says finally.

“No fucking kidding.”

“How do you take your eggs?” Cain asks.

“Sunny side up,” Dean answers.

Sam’s mouth drops open.

“Sam,” Cain says gently. “The same?”

Sam nods dumbly. “But you were dead,” he splutters out, pointing at Cain.

Cain shrugs as he cracks eggs over a pan. “Only a little."

“ _What?_ ”

“Don’t ask,” Dean mutters.

“So, what? Now you two are a thing? Are you sleeping together?”

Dean feels his cheeks flush. “We’re…figuring it all out. Cain’s only been corporeal for about half an hour, give us some time.”

“But you’ve been in contact with one another for almost a year!”

“Sammy,” Dean begins. “I’m really sorry I didn’t say anything.”

But Sam is irate. “All the shit we’ve been through, Dean. All the fucking shit. You could have told me. You _should_ have told me!”

Dean can see the circles Sam’s ready to run round him, so he tries to raise a white flag. “You’re absolutely right. But I didn’t, and we’re here now trying to figure out how we move forward.”

“Just to be clear,” Sam says. “You want to figure out how to move forward with a relationship with _Cain_?”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment. “Yeah, Sammy. That’s what we want.”

“That’s fucking crazy, Dean!” His voice raises an octave.

“It’s a little unconventional, I’ll give you that—”

“He’s a mass murderer.”

“I’m no white knight either.”

That gives Sam pause. “Look I think I just need a minute here. I’m going for a drive.” Then he stands from the table and stalks up the stairs. Dean doesn’t try to stop him.

“He’s going to need time,” Cain says, handing a plate of eggs and toast to Dean. “Everyone is.”

Dean groans. “I don’t even want to think about having to tell Cas.”

“Then don’t,” Cain says simply. “Eat your breakfast. One thing at a time.” He joins Dean at the table before adding, “Besides, he’s right."

Dean coughs on a bit of yolk-soaked toast. “About what?"

“I am a murderer. I was a Knight of Hell. I was going to find a way back regardless, but there’s nothing saying you’re obligated to a relationship with me just because I managed a physical body.”

Dean goes back to eating, the notion dismissed summarily. “Don’t say that shit to me.”

“But it’s true.”

His eyes roll. “Fine, then this is me saying explicitly and sincerely I want to figure this out with you. I’m in.”

Cain smiles, extending his leg under the table so his ankle can rest against Dean’s. “Then I’m glad to hear it.”

“Sam will get over it. He always does.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Can we just have breakfast and cross those particularly damaged bridges when we get to them? Jesus, Cain.”

Breakfast continues in silence.

_

  
  


Sam gets over it, as predicted. He comes back from his walk still disapproving, but settled in his acceptance.

“You’ve killed Death and Hitler. You’ve punched God in the face and been to other dimensions. This is, objectively, not the strangest thing to you’ve ever done.”

“That’s the spirit, Sammy,” says Dean, pulling Sam into a hug. 

Telling Castiel, however, is harder. 

He arrives an hour after Sam comes back, yelling, “Dean, something is wrong! I sensed a shift!” His eyes are wild as he runs through the bunker to the kitchen, where the three of them are sipping on fresh cups of coffee. 

He freezes when he sees Cain. 

“What… _what’s going on_?”

Dean stands up, hands raised slightly as if to soothe. “Long story short, Cain willed himself back to life. And he and I are...friends.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “How?”

“Chaos magic,” Cain supplies.

Castiel’s face relaxes minutely. He clearly understands better than either Sam or Dean do. “Ah.”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t trust that statement.”

“Me neither,” adds Sam. “For what’s it worth.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “But I do.”

“How,” asks Castiel, incredulous. 

“Well,” starts Dean. “So, the thing is I’ve kind of been in contact with Cain for around a year now.”

Castiel takes a step forward. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“In my dreams,” Dean answers, voice raising at the end like he’s asking a question. “In my head.”

Castiel’s glare trains itself on Cain. “Explain.”

“I brought him to my own personal corner of The Empty.”

“You could have killed him!”

“I didn’t.”

“You could have _what_?” scoffs Dean.

“And I _didn’t_ ,” repeats Cain. 

“This is insanity. Cain shouldn’t be here. What about the Mark?”

“Solved it somehow,” Sam says, butting in. “It’s gone.”

Cain raises his arm in confirmation. 

It takes Castiel another hour to accept Cain probably isn’t there to hurt anyone, and then another hour after that to come to terms with the fact Dean’s attracted to him.

“You killed him. It’s my understanding that’s not a customary form of courtship,” says Castiel in the privacy of Dean’s bedroom where they’ve shifted their conversation. 

“Is anything I do _customary_?”

Castiel scowls and sits on the bed. “I suppose not.”

Dean joins him, slotting his side right against Castiel’s. They’ve always had an odd physical closeness. An intensity of feeling for one another never spoken into words. Years ago, Dean had half-expected the interspecies romance in his future would be with the angel beside him. But things had happened and _not_ happened to make clear that wasn’t in the cards for them. Things had just gotten too muddy. The idea of adding sex to the mix felt reckless in a way Dean wasn’t ready for. So their emotional bond remained as it was: Profound and complicated and true, but physically things never went further. Castiel gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition--he supposes their intimacy isn’t lessened for being more metaphysical than physical.

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense on paper,” Dean says, appreciating the way Castiel leans further into him. “I know that. But when we were in...well, the Empty I guess, it simplified things. I think we understand one another.”

Castiel scoffs. “He’s the Father of Murder.”

“And you know just as well as I do that story didn’t go down how folks like to tell it.”

“Still, he was a Knight of Hell.”

“And I spent ten years torturing souls on the rack. Sam walked around for weeks without a soul, and that was after he spent months juicing up on demon blood. You called yourself God and almost beat me to death.”

“Enough,” spits Castiel. “You’ve made your point.”

“We’ve all fucked up. And yeah, he...fucked up a little longer than the rest of us, but that’s not what he’s doing now.”

Castiel turns, hiding his face from Dean. “How did we end up here?”

Even without the explanation, Dean knows what Castiel means. Dean thinks back to when he and Castiel first met. Remembers how he saw his future back then, when Lilith seemed like the worst possible thing they’d ever have to face. He still remembers Sam asking if he thought he and Dean would still be doing this at 60. If they’d grow old at all.

So much has happened between then and now. He never could have foreseen things turning out like this.

“Life, Cas,” he says. “Fucking life.”

He looks back at Dean, and those blue eyes still take Dean’s breath away. 

“You truly trust him?”

“I do. Cain and I just,” he pauses, searching for the right word. “Fit. We fit.” 

Castiel nods. “Then I trust you to make this choice.”

Dean doesn’t need Castiel’s approval. He doesn’t even need Sam’s, if he’s being honest with himself. But to have it from both of them lifts a mighty weight from his shoulders. They sit a little longer, processing the day’s events, before Dean nudges his shoulder against Castiel’s and nods towards the door. 

“Ready to get back out there?”

“I suppose,” Castiel huffs, standing “I still don’t like it.”

“Well, I don’t like that Sam keeps force-feeding me rabbit food, but we all have to make do sometimes.”

Castiel frowns as they exit the bedroom. “I wasn’t aware humans could survive on rabbit food, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head. “I mean green things, Cas. Vegetables and shit.”

 _The more things change_ , he thinks to himself. _The more they stay the same._

_

“We getting close?”

Dean turns from the steering wheel to look at Cain, whose attention is focused on the fields passing by as they drive further into the fog. His eyes seem distant, like they’re seeing past the view immediately before them. Like he’s not in the car with Dean at all.

“Cain,” he says, then repeats, “Are we getting close?”

Cain pulls his gaze away from the glass and looks at Dean. He takes a moment to come back to himself. “Sorry, yes. Take the next exit, then turn left.” 

Dean nods and doesn’t say anything else; he’s grown used to Cain disappearing into his head ever since he willed himself back to life. Dean knows from experience that dying and returning gives a guy a lot to think about. But he does wonder, sometimes, where Cain goes. If he ever retreats back into the liminal space he made for himself and Dean in those months before his form had become more corporeal. He figures all the introspection is probably why Cain up and decided to buy a derelict farmhouse out in Northern California for himself to fix up and live in. God knows living out in the sticks in some rickety old house wouldn’t be Dean’s first choice, but he’d kept his mouth shut and simply started loading up the Impala for their impromptu road trip after he’d found out.

“You don’t need to go with me,” Cain had said, but Dean understands him well enough to know that Cain still hopes he will.

“I want to help you get set up,” Dean had replied. “I’m going.”

“Doesn’t this seem a bit sudden,” Sam had asked when Dean returned inside to grab another bag. 

“He’s got to live somewhere, Sammy,” Dean had muttered.

“And you have to go with him?”

Dean had sighed. “I’d like to, yeah. Look, I know it’s farther away than either of us wanted, but it’s where he’s picked. I owe it to him, and to whatever the hell relationship we’re building, to at least try it out. I’m not moving in.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Figuring it out as I go.”

Sam had shaken his head. “This is still boggling my mind, Dean.”

Dean had smacked Sam on the shoulder. “Me too, dude, me too.”

-

When they pull up to the house, Dean feels his heart sink. The place is in even greater disrepair than he’d previously assumed.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Cain says as he steps out of the car. “She’ll be gorgeous when she’s all fixed up.”

Dean forces himself to count to ten before he gets out of the car himself and asks, “But how long is that going to take?”

Cain doesn’t even look back as he shrugs. “We’ll find out,” he calls behind him as he hurries up to the house. Dean doesn’t like the sound of that.

He follows Cain up to the front porch more slowly, rubbing his arms as he walks. It’s early evening, and the fog’s rolling in, thick and damp, and Dean would bet good money the house doesn’t have any heating. He stubbornly tells himself he hasn’t made a mistake. It gets harder to convince himself of that, though, once he steps inside.

The place is a disaster. The floors are rotted, all the windows are broken, and everything is filthy and rusted. Dean runs a hand over his face once they’ve circled back around to the living room and tries not to scream profanities at Cain for the mess he’s gotten them into. For his part, Cain seems ecstatic. He’s grinning, his steps buoyant, and he looks back at Dean like he’s brought him to their very own Buckingham palace.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, excitement bleeding into every word. “But her foundation is sturdy and the plumbing is sound.”

Dean counts to ten again. “Cain, every fucking room is going to be a major renovation project. We have to replace the floors and the roof. The electrical’s a mess. This place is a shitshow, I’m sorry.”

Cain’s expression falls slightly. “Use your imagination.”

Dean shakes his head. “Are you at least going to use your demon juice so it goes faster?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Cain replies, and Dean can’t help but laugh.

“Jesus Christ, Cain.”

“What, Dean? Afraid of a little hard work?”

“Where the hell are we supposed to even sleep tonight? I’m sure as shit not sleeping here.”

Cain reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet angrily. He opens it up and yanks out a credit card, tossing it Dean’s way. “Then go buy yourself a room for the night,” he spits.

Dean stares at where the card’s landed on the floor and then looks up at the ceiling. “Fuck you, Cain,” he snaps, because he’s tired and hungry and disappointed. Then he stalks out of the house, leaving Cain’s money where it lies.

He gets into the Impala and starts the engine, though he doesn’t leave immediately in case Cain comes running out to collect any of his things from the trunk. When he doesn’t appear, Dean shifts the car into gear and drives off, heading towards the nearest town to find something to eat and book a motel room for the night.

-

It’s not really about the house, Dean thinks as he drives the ten miles to the nearest proper town, though he’s certainly unhappy about that turn of events. It’s really more about _them_. And the fact that Dean has no idea what the hell they’re doing. Cain was dead--at Dean's own hands--then he was not-dead and dream-stalking Dean. Then he was _alive_ and in Dean’s bed, and now they’re both gearing up to fix a house together. It’s weird, to say the least, and when Dean lets himself think too hard about it, it makes him want to turn tail and run.

Things were moving fast, almost too fast. No, they were _definitely_ moving too fast. Cain had manifested in Dean’s bed, and they had kissed and dry-humped until the commotion had made Sam curious enough to see what all the noise was about, walking in on Dean with his hand pawing Cain’s dick through his trousers. And they hadn’t really come up for air since. It was exhausting and exhilarating and Dean had never experienced anything like it since he was resurrected himself all those years ago. But their drive from the bunker to Cain’s new “digs” had forced a pause between them. 

After two weeks of enthusiastic frotting and bickering with Sam about Dean’s new boyfriend, the privacy, silence, and uneventfulness of the car had been a bit of a shock. Dean had played his classic rock and made small talk with Cain about the views from the road, but without Sam to distract from their sudden intimacy, things had become strangely awkward quickly. Not because they had nothing to say--Dean wasn’t worried about the lack of significant conversation--but because the quiet forced Dean to really think about what he was doing, and why. And each time he had, he’d hit a wall. Because he couldn’t really explain what he was doing. He was just doing it. 

Cain seemed in a similar boat, falling back into his thoughts often and for long periods of time. As if he had forgotten Dean was beside him. He kept his hands in his lap and his eyes on the window, and sometimes it took minutes of Dean nattering on before Cain would shift his focus and clarity would come to his eyes. 

“Sorry, Dean, what was that?”

And then Dean would start from the beginning. It wasn’t _bad_ or _worrisome_ , necessarily, so much as it was uncomfortable. So much as it made Dean drive faster so they could get where they were going and out of the car and back to more physically engaging things that didn’t require words in the first place. 

-

After he gets a room settled, Dean ends up at a dive bar with all manner of dead animals mounted on the wall. He eyes a Jackalope warily as he sips his beer.

“He won’t bite,” says the bartender, a woman named Amber who Dean had wasted no time in chatting up. She’s cute and easy to talk to, and she keeps Dean’s mind off Cain and his trainwreck of a house. He doesn’t actually want to sleep with her, of course, but it’s nice to have someone to aimlessly flirt with.

“You sure about that?” Dean asks with a grin. “Not even if I ask nicely?”

Amber tilts her head. “To be honest, he’s kind of an asshole. You’d have better luck with Bessy.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks upwards. “Bessy?”

Amber thrusts her chin upwards, gesturing behind Dean. “The moose,” she explains, and Dean chuckles.

They chat off and on for another hour until Dean decides it’s time to head back to the motel. He sips back the rest of the beer he’s been nursing--his third of the night--and throws down a generous tip for Amber. 

“Leaving me so soon, cowboy?” Amber asks.

Dean smiles at her, eyes ducking down for a moment. “I’m bad company, trust me.”

Amber clucks at that. “But you’re definitely not the worst. Someone waiting for you at home?”

Deans shakes his head. “Not tonight, I think.”

“Cheer up, buttercup,” Amber says with a soft smile of her own. “She’ll come around.”

Dean doesn’t bother correcting her. He just throws up a parting wave and heads out to the Impala.

When he gets back to the motel, he collapses onto the rickety bed and calls Sam.

“Was wondering if you’d make it there today,” Sam says in lieu of hello.

Dean smiles at the sound of his voice and closes his eyes. “It’s good to hear your voice, Sammy.”

Sam’s tone shifts. “Dean, you okay?”

Dean lets out a long, deep groan. “The house is a fucking disaster, Sam. Unlivable. I’m at a motel right now for the foreseeable future because the house is such a mess.”

Sam lets out a whistle. “Cain with you?”

“No, we had a fight. I stormed off, as I do.”

Dean could hear a quiet snort from Sam. “How long do you think the renovations are going to take?”

“Days if I can convince Cain to use his magic to help with the labor. Months if I can’t.”

Sam whistles again.

“But what’s going on with you?” Dean asks eventually.

“Not much. Had a good old fashioned salt-and-burn just outside Lebanon yesterday, but otherwise it’s been quiet. Cas is here, though. You should call him soon.”

“I will,” Dean agrees. “Look, I’m beat,” he continues. “I’ll call you in a few days after we get some of this shit sorted out.”

“Try not to kill each other,” Sam warns.

“Think that ship already sailed,” Dean comments, then he ends the call.

-

Sleep, as Dean expects, does not come easy. He’s tired from all the uncomfortable silences, and mellowed from the beers. But still, when he lays his weary head to rest there is no peaceful sleep. Instead, Dean tosses and turns and messes with his phone until half past midnight, when finally he falls into a fitful sleep. 

He comes to not an hour later when the bed dips beside him. Cain makes himself comfortable and then throws an arm around Dean’s waist. Dean shouldn’t be surprised, he figures. But he is.

“I’m sorry,” Cain whispers into the back of Dean’s neck. His breath raises the hair at Dean’s nape; goosebumps ripple down his arms at the sensation. 

Dean turns to face Cain, throwing a leg over the demon’s thighs. “Me too,” he whispers back, and then they both fall asleep.

In the morning, Dean wakes up alone. He almost wonders if he dreamed Cain joining him in bed, but when he looks on the nightstand he finds a note that says, _Be back soon._ He folds the note back up and then heads for the bathroom. When he returns twenty minutes later, showered and shaved, Cain is sitting on the bed arranging coffee and breakfast burritos on the nightstand.

“I should have been more upfront about the farmhouse,” he says without preamble.

“Good morning to you too,” Dean mutters as he sits beside Cain on the bed and reaches for a burrito.

“I’m serious. It was unfair of me to ask you to come all the way out here without being clear about the state of the house and my intentions in renovating it by hand. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

Dean shrugs and swallows his bite of food. “I’m here now. It’s done. Let’s just deal with the house as fast as we can.”

“So you’ll come back with me?” Cain asks. Then he hurriedly adds. “I’ve fixed up the bedroom and kitchen some.”

Dean sighs and nods, then presses a quick kiss to Cain’s lips. “Yeah, I’ll come back with you.”

When they arrive at the house and step inside, Dean realizes that when Cain says he fixed up the kitchen and bedroom, he means he used his power to make them habitable. The kitchen is still barebones and falling apart in places, but it’s serviceable. Cain’s fixed the gas stove and added a small dining table and two chairs. 

“The fridge works, too,” Cain adds, opening it up to reveal it stocked with food _and_ beer. 

Dean cocks his head, satisfied. 

But it’s the bedroom that leaves Dean truly speechless.

The room has become immaculate overnight. The floors have been re-done in a beautiful pale wood, the walls a light teal that’s almost grey. The glass in each of the two large windows has been replaced and covered with light brown wooden blinds. A brown leather armchair and minimalist steel floor lamp are sat in front of the window that looks out towards the mountains. Perhaps most importantly, there’s a king sized bed dressed in navy linens in the middle of the room, and when Dean places a hand on the pristine white sheets, they’re the softest he’s ever felt. The dark teal area rug beneath the bed complements the walls perfectly.

“Do you like it?” Cain asks. “I wasn’t sure about what colors you’d like, and anything can be changed.”

But Dean turns to Cain and grins. “This is…shit, Cain, this is really something. I love it, honestly. All of it.” The relief on Cain’s face is small, but palpable. And Dean thinks this might work out after all. “Also we’re totally breaking this bed in later.”

Cain raises a brow. “Why wait?”

Dean chuckles and then plants a kiss on Cain’s waiting lips. “No idea,” he says, as he pulls back for a breath, hips pressing firmly against Cain. “Not a single idea.”

-

“So, how’s it going up North?”

Dean scowls as he lobs a rock at a run-away rat. “Fine.”

“Is Cain still determined to do it all by hand?” asks Sam.

Dean rolls his eyes, even though Sam can’t see it. They’ve been at the house for two weeks and things still aren’t moving the way Dean had hoped, though there have been concessions from Cain. “Yes and no. He’s made the bathrooms, kitchen, and master bedroom livable so I won’t run off in protest, but he wants to do the rest of the house by hand.”

Sam sounds as impressed as Dean. “ _Why_?”

“For the ‘experience’ or some ridiculous shit like that.”

“YOLO?”

“I guess. Though for him it’s more like _YOLF.”_

 _“_ Excuse me?”

“You Only Live Forever.” Dean snorts at his own cleverness. 

“Nice one, Dean,” Sam says, but his tone makes it clear it’s anything but.

“So,” Sam says carefully, “are you going to stay the whole time.”

Dean’s been anticipating this question, and he’s unhappy to hear it voiced, even though it’s fair. Dean looks at Cain as he wrestles with a particularly large armful of garbage he’s trying to get out of the house. “I don’t know. It’s a big commitment.”

Sam is quiet for a moment. “What are you doing, Dean?” He asks the question gently, as if he doesn’t want to spook Dean. But Dean isn’t spooked so much as he’s frustrated. 

“Quit asking me, Sam. Or I’ll quit calling.” Dean’s not proud of his answer, but he’s tired of being questioned. 

He hears Sam’s breath whoosh out of his mouth over the phone. “Whatever, Dean.”

Dean sighs. “Listen, Sammy, you have a right to ask. I just don’t have the answer yet. And I’m tired of trying to explain something that feels unexplainable. This trip...this time...I’m trying to figure my shit out. _Our_ shit out. And when I do, believe me. I will let you know.”

Sam seems to consider this. “We wouldn’t be us if we didn’t have some weird shit going down in our lives, I guess,” he concludes. 

“You _know_ that’s right. I’m going to take off. I think we need to get out of this house for a bit. We’ll talk later, ‘kay?”

“You bet. Later, Dean.”

The call ends. Dean watches Cain re-enter with empty arms. 

“Hey, handyman,” he says. “Let’s get lunch.”

“It’s barely 10:30,” says Cain.

“Okay, so then brunch.”

Cain’s smile is bemused. “Since when do you do brunch?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s a brave new world, dude.”

Cain claps his hands together, knocking off the dust. “Then let me just wash up.”

Ten minutes later they’re in the car driving into town. Cain keeps his hand on Dean’s thigh, and Dean keeps a free hand on top of Cain’s whenever he doesn’t need them both to make the tight curves. They talk off and on about the house and the views and the town. Dean sings along with his music and hams it up when he thinks Cain is looking. 

They end up at a small, quaint diner. Fifties music plays quietly on the speakers, and coffee is placed in front of them within seconds of their seating. 

“Good deal,” Dean says in approval as the coffee is set down. 

“Thanks,” Cain says to their server with a smile. 

She smiles back and lets them know she’ll return in a few moments, then she turns away towards another table. Dean watches her go, eyeing the tattoos that stain a mosaic of colors and shapes all down her arm. 

“She’s cute,” says Cain lightly from behind his menu. 

“Testing me?” Dean asks, eyes swiveling back to Cain, but there’s no heat behind the words. 

“Think I’d look any good with some ink?”

Dean smirks. “You’d look good with anything.”

Cain looks at Dean, unimpressed. “You old flirt,” he deadpans. 

“Didn’t they warn you when they wrote about me on those ‘demon bathroom walls?”

Cain snorts at the call back. “They wrote all kinds of things about you, Dean.”

“And what piqued your interest the most?”

Cain’s mouth twists into a small and wicked smile. “That you’ve got a mouth made for cock-sucking.”

Dean’s not sure what to say to that. The flirting between them has been easy enough, but sometimes Cain says things that give even Dean pause--not out of discomfort, but surprise. So he simply shrugs. “Word spreads fast,” he mutters as he takes a swallow of coffee.

“Like your legs?”

A splutter from Dean. Then a clearing of a throat from off to the side. 

“You boys decided?” their server asks. 

Dean’s too old to blush, so he just glares at Cain instead. “Combo four,” he says sweetly to the woman. “Bacon and hashbrowns extra crispy, please.”

“And a number one for me,” Cain adds. He doesn’t even bother looking apologetic. 

For the first ten minutes, they talk about their plans for the rest of the day. What Cain hopes to tackle in the house. Dean rolls his eyes at all the appropriate moments, and rags on Cain for refusing to use his powers to do the necessary work. But he's not really mad about it anymore, it's just fun to harass Cain about it. Dean's in a good mood, though. It’s nice to be sharing a meal outside the house. They haven’t ventured out much, mostly to the grocery and hardware stores for supplies of all stripes. Dean’s gotten take-away a few times, but Cain seems hellbent on doing as much of his new life himself, including cooking in their ramshackle kitchen, and Dean’s been itching for something different. He knows he should appreciate home cooked meals over diner food after the years he spent stuck with nothing else, but what can Dean say? Sometimes he gets nostalgic for some grease. 

“Thanks for coming out with me,” says Dean, kicking Cain lightly under the table.

“Going a little stir crazy?” Cain asks.

Dean sips at his coffee. It’s burning hot and black as sin, just the way he likes it. “Maybe a little.”

“Any regrets yet?”

He gives Cain a flat stare. “Only that the bed isn’t bigger.”

It’s not what Cain is expecting, which was Dean’s hope. The demon huffs a laugh. “It’s a king. I don’t think they get any bigger.”

“You’re basically a demigod, you can’t use your hellfire to get creative? Pathetic, man.”

Cain shakes his head, laughing. “I guess I’ll have to see what I can do.” He takes a drink of coffee, which is doctored with enough cream and sugar to make Dean cringe. “How’s Sam?”

“He’s all right. He’s at ground zero for Cas’ many mood swings about me being here with you, so he’s going a little crazy himself, but he’s fine.”

“Castiel may never come around.”

“Okay, Negative Nancy, none of that charming pessimism before I’ve had my pancakes.” Dean sighs. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility that Castiel may not ever accept his relationship with Cain. “Besides, Cas and I have been through shit worse than this. I mean, he’s threatened or attempted to kill me like, at least twice. And I’ve tried to kill him. And we’re still here, so the fact I’m boning a demon shouldn’t really be that big of a deal.”

Cain snorts. “We can only hope.” He pauses, considering his coffee. 

He has a look on his face that Dean suspects means there’s something else he’s thinking of saying. “Say what you’re thinking,” he says.

Cain doesn’t speak immediately. Dean waits him out. He can be patient.

Finally, Cain says, “I don’t mean to be negative. I think I’m...jealous.”

Dean scoffs, surprised. “Of what?”

“What you have with Castiel. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I don’t feel l can compete with what you share with him.”

Dean shifts in his seat, hands gripping his coffee cup tighter. “It’s not a competition. Castiel is family. He’s….”

“He seems more than family, which I’m not saying is a bad thing.” Cain places a hand over Dean’s wrist. “He’s beloved by you.”

“Slow down, Cain--”

“I’m not saying you’re secretly pining for a relationship with him. I don’t mean I feel you’re with me as a substitute or any other sort of stopgap because you’re not with him.”

“Then what _do_ you mean?” snaps Dean. 

Cain leans back in his chair. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never imagined yourself spending the rest of your life with Castiel. And before you say anything, I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about something bigger. Tell me what you feel for Castiel you’ve also felt for someone else.”

Dean swallows. He scrabbles for anything to say to counter Cain’s accusation. “I can’t,” he finally admits. To himself as much as Cain.

All he’d wanted was breakfast. 

“And I’m jealous of that,” Cain concludes. 

“Are you jealous of Sam, then, too?” he says, angry at himself. At Cain. At the whole conversation.

“Not really,” Cain says with a shrug. “But your relationship with him is easier to understand as your brother.”

“Shit,” Dean says catching sight of the waitress with her arms loaded with plates. “Food’s coming. I don’t even want to eat anymore.”

“Hey,” says Cain, then pausing because she arrives an instant later.

“Here you go, boys,” she says cheerily, either oblivious to the tension or well-trained in the art of ignoring it.

“Thank you,” Cain says kindly. 

“Need anything else?”

“No, thank you,” he tells her. He waits for her to disappear back amongst the tables of other customers. Then he turns back to Dean. 

“I know you’re not sitting here wishing you were with Castiel. And this wasn’t the right time to have this conversation, so for that I apologize. My hang ups with your relationship with the angel are _my_ problems, not yours. You haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m not upset with you or Castiel. I’m simply processing the depth of your connection, which I had never fully appreciated before. And I’m finding it hard not to compare.”

“But you can’t,” says Dean, feeling an urgency in his voice. He can’t lose Cain before they’ve even had a chance to figure things out properly. And if Cain is already struggling with what Dean shares with Castiel, then whatever he’s doing with Cain starts feeling a little doomed.

“I know, Dean.” His voice is soft, and there’s a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “You’re here with me, and I’m here with you, and that fact makes me the happiest I’ve been since I was human. I don’t doubt your feelings for me.”

Dean clears his throat, trying to shake himself out of the bad feeling creeping down his neck. “Good,” he says gruffly, pouring syrup over his pancakes. 

“Seriously,” Cain says after a few bites of his eggs Benedict. “How would I look if I got a tattoo?”

Dean snorts. Cain’s trying to distract him and reroute the conversation. Dean decides to go with it. “You’d look hot. What would you get?”

“I don’t know. Maybe some kind of honeycomb pattern.”

The answer comes too quickly, like Cain’s thought about this before. “Wait, are you serious?”

“Maybe. Give this body a different kind of mark than the previous one had.”

Dean thinks about it. “It suits you, getting something bee related. Where would you put it?”

“Now, that I don’t know. Where would you suggest.”

Dean looks over Cain’s torso, imagining the planes of skin hiding under his henley. He follows the lines of Cain’s biceps and forearms, imaging black lines stretching out over the muscles there. 

“I have to think about it,” he says. 

“Would you get something with me?”

“Me? I haven’t really thought about getting another tattoo before.” He watches Cain’s eyes drop to the space where Dean’s anti-possession tattoo stains his chest. 

“I think you’d look pretty hot, too.”

Things feel more level with food and coffee and non-heartfelt conversation preoccupying Dean. He watches Cain eat and drink disgustingly sweet coffee and feels a tenderness in his chest he isn’t overly familiar with. 

_I’m falling in love,_ he texts Sam later, impulsively, caught up in watching Cain paint the bathroom and feeling that same tenderness from lunch overwhelm him still hours later. _That’s what I’m doing here._

Such openness from him is almost unheard of, but Dean’s forty years old and getting too old for bullshit. It’s how he feels. He’s ready to own it. 

_I’m happy for you_. Sam texts back moments later. _Take your time with him_.

_Thanks, Sammy._

He locks his phone and puts it in his pocket. Swallows around the unexpected and totally unacceptable lump in his throat. 

“You need any help?” he says to Cain, who has paint in his ponytail. 

Cain puts the paintbrush down in the tray. “Did you time that on purpose so you’d ask the exact moment I’m finished?” He walks up to Dean, kissing him in the doorway where Dean’s leaning against the jamb.

“Maybe,” says Dean. “You know I’m good with fixing cars, not houses.”

“You want to go for a walk?” Cain is still so thoroughly in Dean’s space Dean can’t help but think of other activities they could be doing. But these afternoon walks are becoming something of a routine for the pair of them.

“Sure. Sun’s out, might as well take advantage.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

There’s a trail not far from the house that winds through a small redwood grove. Dean knows it’s one of Cain’s favorite things about where he lives, and he likes it too. But he likes better the way Cain is impressed by every bit of nature they stumble across. Spider webs and mushroom clumps, bird calls and dappled light. It’s all magic to him. 

“They would never admit it, but this is why demons want to escape hell. This is why angels fall.”

“God did something right, I guess.”

Cain shakes his head. “This isn’t God. He likes to take credit, but this is the evolution of what came before.”

Dean thinks about asking for Cain to explain, but decides against it. Cain holds the knowledge of the universe--Dean isn’t sure he’s meant to hold it himself. He just wants to enjoy the trees. The conversation from lunch still comes to him in fragments, but Dean’s unwilling to give his whole attention to it, so washes of his anxiety around Castiel, and his feelings for Castiel, and Cain’s feelings about Dean and Castiel come and then fade and then return in some new form even as Dean surrounds himself with the sun-streaked wonder of the woods. He wants to be present, but then he hears Cain say Castiel is his _beloved_ and the spell is broken. 

He tries to observe the feelings when they overtake him, and then release them. It’s a technique Sam tried to make Dean practice way back when. It helps a little to acknowledge what he’s feeling without putting a value judgement on it, but it doesn’t erase anything, which is what Dean really wants. 

“You good?” asks Cain.

Dean decides to be honest. “Today kind of fucked me up.”

“I’m sorry. That was my fault.”

Dean looks at a redwood, standing more than a hundred, maybe two hundred feet tall. He puts a hand on the bark, wondering if it’s his imagination, the thrum he senses beneath his hand. “I’m glad you told me. It just gave me a lot to think about.”

There are so many landmines in their relationship. Dean knows they’ll likely trip over countless more as they figure out who they are to one another and what they want. He can’t be afraid of them. He has to lean into them, and be willing to set them off. 

“I wish things could be easier for us,” says Cain. 

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t. We’re going to have to work for this, but neither one of us is afraid of some hard work obviously.”

“So you’re optimistic, then?”

Dean _tsks_ . “Dude, I followed you here after a year of your weird sex dreams. I think it’s pretty clear I’m, like, _in this_ for the long haul.”

Cain laughs. “You can’t let a moment just be a moment, still after all this time.”

Dean heaves a sigh. “I’ve had enough moments for one day, what can I say.”

He hopes Cain doesn’t take his flippancy for permanent dismissal of their conversation, he just can’t talk anymore about his heart right now. He’s been more introspective today than he has in a long time, and that’s saying something considering the existential crisis his dreams with Cain sent him into not so long ago. 

He tries to make up for his emotional stuntedness in bed later, conveying care through kisses and hip thrusts, pressing Cain so close he can barely breathe for how tightly they’re holding one another. He’s not ready to say _I love you_ but Dean knows he’s confessing something all the same. He’s just not sure if Cain realizes it. 

After they’ve finished, their bodies cooling and sticking in ways Dean would hate in any other context, Dean raises himself up so that he can look down at Cain’s chest. He places his right hand over Cain’s heart. “Put the honeycomb tattoo here.”

Cain puts his hand over Dean’s, then lifts Dean’s hand to his lips. He drops kiss after kiss on the knuckles before saying, “Whatever you want, Dean.”

“This,” Dean says, leaning in to kiss Cain. “I want this.”

_This, this, this!_

-

Dean and Cain are early risers through force of habit, but when Dean wakes up the following morning he’s surprised to find that not only is it after 7:00 am, but Cain is still with him too. Dean turns around to face Cain, who is already awake, if just barely. 

“We slept in,” he tells him.

Cain yawns. “Guess we needed it.”

It’s impossibly good, waking up this way. Things feel heavy and hazy and wonderful, and when Cain presses his morning erection against Dean’s thigh, Dean doesn’t think twice before shifting into it. 

Sex has leveled up since they got to the house. Something about being alone, _completely alone,_ for the first time in ages has let something loose in Dean. He doesn’t have a lot of experience being intimate with men, but mechanics aside, it’s much the same. Make the other person feel as good as possible and ask for what you want so you get the same. 

The first few times they’d only frotted, with mutual handjobs and blowjobs sprinkled throughout. But after three days Cain had said, “I want you inside me,” and Dean had short-circuited. Two days later Dean had asked for the same, and now with over two weeks under their belt, they’d fucked on just about every stable surface available to them. 

“How do you want it,” Cain whispers against the shell of Dean’s ear. 

Dean turns so his back is against Cain’s front. “Like this.”

Cain takes the hint, entering from behind. He throws an arm over Dean’s chest, pulling him in closer, and his tongue laves at the side of Dean’s exposed throat. It’s not the easiest position, but Dean likes how lazy it is, how much of his body gets to be pressed against so much of Cain’s. 

“So good, Cain,” he mumbles, overtaken by his arousal. 

“Only for you, Dean,” Cain answers. “Only want you.”

They don’t last long, but Dean doesn’t mind. He’s already thinking about how he’s going to tease more out of Cain after they’ve eaten something and had their morning caffeine. 

Cain reads his mind. “Shower, and then coffee?” He pulls out slowly, making Dean moan at the loss. 

“Shower and then coffee,” Dean agrees. 

They shower together, but efficiently. They’re both too old to be ready so quickly. But that doesn’t mean Dean can’t let Cain know what’s coming later by lazily humping the demon against the shower wall in between shampoos. 

In the bedroom after, Cain keeps interrupting Dean’s attempts at dressing himself with kisses. 

“Cain,” Dean finally says, laughing through another kiss. We’ve got to put clothes on, sad as it may be.”

“Fine,” says Cain, stepping back. “Be practical then.” 

They managed to get dressed without further issue, but Dean admits to himself he’s a little sad about it. 

“You make coffee, I’ll make the bed?” Dean offers after they’ve both got their clothes on. 

“Sounds good,” says Cain. 

He leaves to go downstairs, and Dean turns his attention to the bed. He doesn’t worry about the mess they’ve made of the sheets, knowing Cain’s already mojo’d them clean. At least this is one task Cain doesn’t mind using his power for. He makes the bed quickly, but happily. Dean has yet to get over the simple pleasure of making his own bed. And while this bed is technically Cain’s--Dean doesn’t even know how long he’ll be staying here; a question for another time--for now the responsibility for it is shared.

When he makes it downstairs, Cain is finishing up the tea tray, a mug out and ready for when the percolator is finished doing its job. Dean comes up behind Cain, who is just finishing pouring his water into the tea pot, and wraps his arm around his waist. He’d never admit it aloud, but domesticity feels _good_ to him. 

He’d loved this part of living with Lisa and Ben. It was just the whole Sam-stuck-in-Hell thing that had ruined the experience. Now there was no such worry. Sam was safe. Castiel was safe. He could still hunt if he wanted. And he could have this, too. He could have Cain. A _life_ with Cain. 

“I’ll carry it outside,” he says, moving to pick up the tray. 

“And I’ll bring the coffee.”

Five minutes later they’re out on the porch, sipping their respective drinks and staring out into the misty morning. 

“Nothing compares to this, Cain,” Dean says with a certainty that surprises even himself. 

They’re going to fight. They’re going to scream. Dean is going to make mistakes and Cain is going to make them, too. And at some point Dean will have to go back to the bunker and deal with the rest of his life. He’ll have to figure his shit out with Castiel. 

But for now there is black coffee and tea with honey and blue skies and redwood trees and a house slowly becoming a home. And there’s Cain at the center of it all.

And that’s enough for Dean. 


End file.
